


PT

by hlwim



Series: Short and Sassy [2]
Category: Mass Effect
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-28
Updated: 2013-03-28
Packaged: 2017-12-06 18:01:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/738529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hlwim/pseuds/hlwim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shepard is often uncooperative.  Post-Destroy ending Shenko fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	PT

**PT**  
“Shepard? Still in quarantine?”

“It's safe enough,” she calls back. Kaidan kicks his shoes off at the door and gingerly shrugs out of his coat—shoulder's been acting up lately. A pile of correspondence has melted into the sideboard, untouched for weeks. With a half-sigh, he keeps going.

Shepard's in the living room, nested in a pile of blankets on one of the couches, still in pajamas, hair wrangled into a loose braid. He stops in the doorway with a smile.

“Hey.”

“Hey. Don't kiss me.”

She crosses two fingers in front of her face, warding him off towards the kitchen.

“Wouldn't dream of it,” he chuckles. “You eat?”

“Mom brought stuff by.”

He finds the picked-over remains of something Thai in the oven and can't help making a face.

“You go anywhere today?”

“Ugh, _no_.”

“You had an appointment.”

“Savior of the galaxy. Doctors can come to _me_.”

Kaidan rolls his eyes and licks his fingers clean, turning to the fridge.

“Want a beer?”

“No. And I can call Chakwas tomorrow. She's only going to tell me what I already know.”

“What the hell happened to the opener?”

“What kind of Canadian are you?” Shepard returns. “Crack it with your teeth.”

He gives up, with an affectionate glare, and uses the counter edge. Shepard claps, mockingly, and then dissolves into coughing.

“That's what you get.”

“For what?” she says, between hacks.

“Your sass.”

“You love my sass.”

She makes a space for him at the end of the couch. The floor around her is littered with books and papers. He's happy to sit for a while, sipping his beer. Extranet's still not up, at least not for anything nonessential, so they've cobbled together an ancient wireless which picks up the only broadcasting station.

Whoever's running the broadcast used to be military—the program's a mess, jumping from news bursts to reconstruction updates to audiobooks to music with no set schedule. Right now, they're finishing up some old radio-play.

“It was jazz earlier,” Shepard says, catching his stare. “All that smooth, sexy stuff. And me all alone.”

He raises an eyebrow to her pout.

“You're not cleared.”

“Hasn't stopped us so far. And anyway, _you_ don't know.”

“ _You_ would, if you went to your damn appointments.”

She makes a face, lips pursed, eyes squinted, brow wrinkled. She's always hated a challenge, so Kaidan keeps his own expression neutral, draining the bottle.

“Did you do your PT today?”

Shepard disappears into the couch, throwing a blanket over her head and shuffling down into the cushions.

“ _No_.”

“Why not?”

“'Cause.”

“Not a reason.”

He tugs at the corner of the top blanket, scooting closer to the lump of his wife.

“Didn't want to.”

“Still not a reason.”

She fights him a little, digging deeper against his intrusion.

“Don't care.”

“You're never going to get used to the prosthesis if you don't, you know, _use_ it.”

“And if you don't practice, you might as well give the oboe to a kid who will.”

She emerges in a small crackling storm of static, struggling to flatten her hair. The broadcast fizzles into silence—someone's left the booth unattended, maybe gone out to dinner.

“I'm wearing it, okay?”

“Which is a good start, I'll give you. But you have to move.”

“I'm _sick_ ,” Shepard whines, drawing out the vowel. “I'm all achy and tired and don't want to get up.”

“C'mon, I'll help.”

He stands, setting aside the bottle, and holds out his hands.

“What're we doing?” she asks warily.

“Something simple. Easy. C'mon.”

With both hands, he pulls her up on her feet. She's unsteady, still leaning hard on her right, gripping him tight.

“Hold onto my shoulders.”

He kneels to adjust the prosthesis—part of her problem is that she never puts it on the way they'd been shown, because she didn't _want_ to be shown, because when she woke up in the hospital she wasn't really there or ready to face what had happened to her.

“Better?”

“Asshole.”

He straightens up, and she doesn't let go, hands fisted in his shirt. She's working on a kicked-puppy look, but he's been working on an immunity. The wireless pops with sound again.

“I said it'd be easy. How about, we take a walk around the living room, and then I take you upstairs for a nice long massage?”

“Pass,” Shepard frowns. “Please don't make me? I'm tired.”

“Defeat the Reapers, and Commander Shepard gets taken down by the common cold.”

“ _Ti_ -red,” Shepard says, separating the syllables for his convenience.

Kaidan glances at the wireless.

“How about a dance, then?”

“Blech.”

“We didn't get to dance at our wedding.”

“We were in wheelchairs.”

“You have to move,” Kaidan says firmly. “Or you'll get blood clots and have an aneurysm.”

“Will not.”

He cups her jaw, smiling, thumb running over her cheekbone.

“Stand on my feet,” he says. “I'll do all the work.”

She folds into his embrace, hands shifting to circle behind his neck. He shuffles their bodies in little turns, slowly, her head on his chest, hair damp against his cheek. She hasn't showered, and he breathes deep the faint, musky smell of their bed and her warm skin. Their rhythm doesn't fit the music at all.

“I'm pregnant,” she whispers into his shoulder, eyes closed.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He pulls her a little closer, hands crossing at the small of her back.

“And how do we feel about that?” he asks, lips at her hairline.

“Scared.”

“Happy?”

“A little.”

Her hands shift again, down his shoulders, around beneath his arms, squeezing across his ribs.

“We'll deal with the cold first, okay?”

“Saved the galaxy,” Shepard says, nodding against his chest. “Everything else is a cakewalk, right?”

“Right.”

She looks up, tired, worry etched around her eyes. But she's smiling, a little lifting at the corners of her mouth, and he leans down, pressing his lips to hers, as gentle and reassuring as he can. Then she lays her head back on his chest, and he rests his cheek against her hair again, and they turn in slow, sweet circles.

“You're not going to use this as an excuse to weasel out of PT.”

“You suck.”

He chuckles and kisses her hair.

“I love you, too.”


End file.
